IT was Sunday afternoon. The fishing boats were lying at anchor in the little harbor, and the fishermen were scattered on the wharf or along the beach in the sand enjoying the Sunday rest. But not all, for, at the point where the only street of the fisher village extended to the beach, a number of men and women had gathered around a young man, almost a youth, who was standing on the top of a herring barrel, and was reading aloud the words of a hymn which the little company began to sing.
“It sounds real nice, doesn’t it, Dieter?” so spoke one of two men who sat on the edge of the bridge.
Dieter Lange, a strongly built old man, with snow-white beard, was a person of influence among the villagers, and he had refused to listen to the preaching; because of this Henry Lehman had spoken somewhat shyly.
The former nodded carelessly, and Henry continued, “It is really strange—the son of Whiskey John, wants to preach to us. They say he speaks very nicely. My wife was there last Sunday, and she wanted me to go with her this time.”
“I have nothing against the boy,” said Dieter, thoughtfully. “As far as I am concerned, he can preach as often as he wishes, but I don’t see that I need his preaching. How can this young fellow tell me anything that I have not known long before him. I have done well without these religious notions until now, and do you think I would let a young boy like him instruct me?”
Henry rose slowly and in embarrassment murmured, “Well, I have promised my wife, so I had better go.”
After a little while, Dieter was the only one left on the bridge, for the singing had attracted the rest towards the group. The quietness of the day was interrupted only by the soft splashing of the waves, and the voice of the young speaker, so that many words were heard plainly by Dieter. “He gave His life for you!” “While we were yet sinners, Christ died for us!” “Ile died, the Just for the unjust!” Thus he pointed all to Christ who gave His life a ransom. His words were simple, but were spoken in living power. One could feel that the young man had experienced what he was speaking about—the saving love of Christ. They all listened quietly and with good attention. When the circle broke up, Henry came back to sit again with his friend.
“It is the sheerest nonsense,” growled the old man, as they arose, and loitered along the beach. “It goes altogether against reason, that One should die for those who hate Him, and seek to injure Him at every chance.”
“Well, it sounds nice; it’s too bad if it was not true,” answered his friend somewhat saddened.
Monday morning the boats were still at anchor, for a storm had risen during the night, and the waves were tossing furiously. At noon Henry went to the bridge to look at the weather, but old Dieter was there already, looking through the telescope. He called Henry to him, saying “Whose boat do you think that is out there?”
Henry looked through his glass. “It is making straight for the rocks,” he cried.
“That fellow seems to be beside himself. It is Whiskey John’s boat. I saw him drunk this morning.”
The two men were watching the boat with great interest. “Now, it is all right; it is out of the current. But, no, he is too much intoxicated; he does not know what he is doing. No boat could get to him in such a storm.”
“There goes a boat out! Who can be so thoughtless as to risk his life in such an undertaking. It is the boy!”
Yes, it was the young “preacher” of yesterday that ventured out to save his step-father—Whiskey John—if it were possible. A crowd of men and women gathered together, who, with accustomed eyes were watching the proceedings on the sea, and asking each other if there was a chance to save them. The little boat disappeared every little while among the high waves, and several times it seemed as though it had gone down to rise no more; but again it could be seen carried on the crest of a mighty wave, and now—now, it has reached the large boat. But, alas, too late! They will both be thrown against the rocks and perish.
“Pray for the boy! pray,” cried one of the women, and one and another went on their knees. Another moment of great suspense. Dieter Lange cried, “They are in the water! Now the brave boy stands on the rock and he is pulling his father out of the water. A rope! a rope! Run with the rope. They cannot hold out long in such a sea!”
“They have gone down,” cried a woman.
“No, no! they are there yet! Now the rope! Thank God, they have taken hold of it!”
“Now, pull, as if it meant your own life,” Dieter cries out, taking hold with his own strong hands.
During the sobs and prayers of the women, they pull the rope with great difficulty, on which is tied an old sin-stained man, who has been given a little longer time for repentance. But his son, they shall not see until the Lord shall come, and the trump of God shall call the dead in Christ, and the sea shall give up the dead.
There is still preaching in the village, on the beach on Sunday afternoons. It is not now a youth, but an old man, whose gray head looks above the little circle—it is Dieter Lange.
“It is all true what the lad has told you,” he said the first Lord’s day. “You know how I mocked, and said it was nonsense, that one could give His life for His enemies. But the boy has done it himself for the one who treated him so cruelly. And, now, I know Who gave him the strength to do it; I too know Him as my Redeemer and my Saviour. Comrades, we are without excuse, we must all lay ourselves at the feet of Him who gave His life to save from death, eternal death, such sinners as we are.”
ML 05/23/1909